


level me with a dream

by vintaged



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Character Development, M/M, Post-Finale, but don't worry they love each other, missing ezra hours, secret boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/pseuds/vintaged
Summary: You fall into a rhythm. Easy, wordlessly.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus & Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 21
Kudos: 88





	level me with a dream

**Author's Note:**

> so much thanks to [whiplashcrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplashcrash/pseuds/whiplashcrash) for sticking with me through this piece; i get really shy about writing, but she constantly pushes me to believe in myself and not give up. thank you, my friend!
> 
> anyways, i hope u enjoy!
> 
> update: elle suggested [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bh4TU3OyJLc) for the soundtrack: 
> 
> update: [chocolatemudkip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemudkip/pseuds/chocolatemudkip) added a gorgeous [spicy fic! 18+](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/60993373?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_323428891)

You fall into a rhythm. Easy, wordlessly. 

Early mornings, 05:00, before the humidity has taken a firm hold. There is no sticky residue here; no melting warmth or heavy, swampy air. It will come, of course; but for now the heat hovers above the two of you, just an hour or so out of reach.

You don’t need an alarm, anymore. In the hush of dawn you make your way out of the crowded bunk, downstairs; across the landing pad; into the thick of the woods. Light shoes, bo-rifle strapped to your back, small container of water; _quietly._ Sometimes there is a soft, wet fog -those days are the best. Sometimes the sky has already cleared. 

Garazeb will get there before you; it’s not a race, anymore. You move easy, these days, knowing that if nothing else, he is for certain. 

He is seated at the base of the farthest tree, crosslegged. Eyes closed, breathing slowly (he’s been doing so many breathing exercises these days, meditating and grounding like a jedi).

(like Kanan.)

“Agent,” he says as you enter the clearing, without opening his eyes. “You’re late.”

Which is a lie, of course.

“I suppose I’m not allowed to argue that you’re just early?”

It is a passable attempt at humor, but whatever you say, it doesn’t take much for Zeb to crack a smile. You are glad of it, to see that smile again. A flash of teeth against the gray of morning. It is small, but it’s something. For a time, you feared you’d never see that smile again. Thought it was lost for good.

(This is how it goes, after everything.)

He carries Kanan and Ezra with him, always. Close to his chest. It’s a quiet weight, now, but you can still see the wildness in his eyes when he charges into anything that could become a battle. A loss like that never heals, not fully; and Garazeb refuses to add them to the graveyard in his mind. If anything he whips up their fading memory for every skirmish; louder and louder until he’s swimming in grief, until there are nights so frenzied, so pained, you find yourself alone with him in the mess hall. Drained and shell shocked as the day he was born, a child all over again.

 _I wish I’d gone with them_ , Zeb says to you once, towards the dawn. _Should’ve found a way in._

_You know that wouldn’t have changed anything._

A cough of laughter. His hips surge with the effort to turn onto his back, make eye contact with you as he chokes on the retort. 

_You dunno that._

_Yes I do._

Zeb is quiet for a moment, staring up at the ceiling as the early morning light begins to creep across the wall. Your shift begins in twenty minutes, but Zeb doesn’t know that, and you have no intention of telling him.

_Kal -_

_Yes?_

_I... don’t know when, but -I forgot-I forgot how much it hurts when they take everyone away. When they’re gone… and you’ve lost them for good._

His eyes are wet.

_How do you survive it?_

And he isn’t blaming you, isn’t bitter. But there is something about the last Lasat you’ll ever know, asking his murderer for anything resembling comfort, that breaks you just a bit. Just enough.

That’s when the sparring matches start.

The first time Zeb is dumbfounded to be awakened by a sharp rap of your bo-rifle, to find you waiting at the foot of his bunk. A look of sly expectation crosses his face, but when his eyes widen enough to take in your sparring garb, that look is quickly replaced with one of exasperation.

 _Kallus,_ he groans at you, tries to roll away into the blankets. _It’s too kriffin early for this._

_Not for you, Captain._

_There’s hardly any light. I’ll practice with Rex later... Lemme sleep..._

_There’s enough light to practice by,_ you say. _And you’re getting sloppy. Let’s go._

The words are enough for Zeb to turn back to you with a glare. _Whaddya mean,_ sloppy? He spits out. _I could battle circles around your sorry ass, Kal, and you know it._

_Forgive me if I’m less than inclined to believe you._

_What?!_

Got him.

 _I just expected more commitment from someone of your caliber, Garazeb,_ you say, and then he’s up and charging and you can’t help but smirk.

 _A’right, Agent._ He growls, reaching for his forgotten sleepshirt. _I hope you’ve got the moves to back up those mighty words of yours, else you’ll be eating them and a few broken teeth for breakfast._

And he follows you. He always follows you.

(When did that start? The following?)

(It does not matter. All that matters is today, now.)

Zeb rises. Unslings his bo-rifle, adjusts it to bo-staff mode. You could spar with regular staffs, of course, just like everybody else. But both of you know that you’ve never been like everybody else. You live for the risk, even after all this time, probably forever. To equate this -whatever this is- to a friendly match would sour the intensity with which Zeb’s lip curls as you mirror his actions, roll your neck, refuse to break eye contact.

Maybe there will be a breath. A nod. Maybe not.

And the dance begins.

To this day you are the only one who faces him with a mirror weapon, and Zeb is nothing if not secure in his abilities. He matches you strike for strike, deftly, unafraid. One hit, two, parallels to crosses and back again; you know how to fight him, and he knows how to respond. If you’re quick, you can dig a foot into the soft dirt and parry, parry, bunt into his belly with the end of the bo-staff. He twists, gasps, staggers back and whirls the staff between surprisingly deft fingers. Shakes off the hit, growls, charges you.

(This is how it goes, now.)

Zeb is fast. You duck as he whips the bo-staff at your right side, feel it graze the top of your head and tilt so that you can see him out of the corner of your eye. His stance is strong, but in the morning the earth is still damp and malleable. Slippery. You drop to one knee, flick your staff like a jumprope so that it connects with Zeb’s ankle. He yelps, crumples for a moment. 

An opening.

With a grunt you kick off of your bent leg towards Zeb’s chest, slight stagger as you drop the bo-staff to your other hand to offset the weight; he regains his footing and blocks your blow just in time, thrusts his own weapon so that you jump back, and then you are parrying again, again, again-

You’re already out of breath, and he’s grinning as he charges; the smile falters when you sidestep, block his topheavy swing. Zeb twists against you and it becomes a test of strength, as always, staffs locked in a checkmate only exhaustion will break. You are not known for breaking. With a yell you spin, unlocking your weapons and sending Zeb stumbling forward with the full force of his weight. He drops, but manages to kick your legs out from under you too, and for a moment there is an ungainly scrabble for footing and weapons. And then you’re both up again, muddy and trembling with fatigue, circling the clearing, waiting for a chance to strike.

(Garazeb is always so alive at this point. Bright with adrenaline, teeth bared. Panting a little. This is when you love him most, when he returns to his element in a blaze of glory and you are there to witness it.)

(is it love, though?)

You move first, lunging at the Lasat with bo-staff extended, only for him to link his staff under yours and force your arms up, up, backwards, almost toppling you. You jump into a spin, weapon falling into your left hand. A crack as Zeb’s staff strikes your shoulder, an answering yell as you duck and roll out of his way. And then you’re up, both hands on your bo-staff, and you’re matched again, blow for blow. Strike, parry, strike, strike, parry, strike, wait-

Zeb is known for playing dirty, these days. Recklessly. If you’re not careful he’ll stretch one leg out and loop one large foot around the crook of your knee, jerk you forward with a yell. 

It only takes a moment for him to disarm you. Two gasping breaths and you’ve collapsed onto his chest, the wind knocked out of you.  
You curse at him, and he laughs, and the match is called. Every now and again the roles will switch, as matches often do. Someone wins; someone surrenders. _To the victor go the spoils._ You both know this.

But these days, there’s something different in the wins. A catch in the throat, perhaps. A hitch in bodies; you aren’t sure anymore.

He kisses you, softly. _I win._

You scoff halfheartedly against his mouth. _Barely._

It’s easy, now, to offer the reward.

(You remember the first time Garazeb takes his prize: when you are stiff, cold, angry at his unfair win. Caught off guard, if you’re being honest.)

(Was it really only a few cycles ago, that everything changed?)

It’s not like it hadn’t happened before, of course. Many times, now; you’ve long since moved past the flimsy excuse that the shared bunk is always just a drunken mistake. But stepping any farther into the explanation is not an option -not now. And stepping into it sober? Absolutely not.

You don’t pretend it’s anything more than sloppy hunger, of course. It’s a running joke among the pilots; they rib you and Zeb constantly, place bets between missions, and offer extra rations if one of you proposes. Neither of you have ever taken it seriously; it’s all meant in jest, something the Rebellion has been short on for many years now. 

And it isn’t as though they’re wrong, exactly.

They all notice it; whenever there is a turn of the tide, you find each other. Sooner or later, drunk off of victory or defeat or a bitter mixture of the two, everyone descends into drunken revelry. And Zeb lets go, in the same way that he does in battle; fully, desperately. He is a walking lesson in escapism.

By moonrise Zeb can be found in the inventory warehouse; surrounded by rebels, arm wrestling Chewbacca. You sidle up behind him, carefully, as rebels cheer and fling credits in the betting pool. Raucous, as always.

 _Don’t lose,_ you tell him.

Zeb hiccups his way through a sneer.

_When have I ever lost, Agent?_

Sometimes it will be only another heartbeat before his arm is slammed down, till Chewie’s side of the table is roaring with success and drunken affability. Sometimes two. Sometimes it’s the opposite; they are, after all, evenly matched.

On the nights he wins, he turns to you immediately, scoops you up, lets loose a bellow that sings in your chest: _AGAIN!_

On the nights he loses, he grabs his drink, downs it, and roars: _AGAIN!_

Either way, there is a rematch.

(This is how it goes, after everything.)

And you know where you’ll end up, the two of you. You’re never sure when or how it will start, only that it’s inevitable -when you’ll both be drunk off of liquor and youth, backed into a corner, stumbling out to the landing pad to get fresh air. Haphazardly wandering, hidden in the shadowy maze of battered, peeling ships. There is no “spot.” But you always feel the shift in the air when it happens, that hitch of conversation. Within a moment it’s all off-kilter, a moment when you’re laughing, or crying, or arguing, and Zeb goes, _Kal_ , and your heart stops. 

Sometimes it’s then, sometimes it’s a beat after; sometimes you don’t kiss at first, just turn towards Zeb and rest your forehead against his. Let his warm breath, heavy with alcohol and anticipation, coast across your brow..

Find your way back to his bunk, hands tight.

Up until very recently you make sure you are gone by morning. That’s the rule, unspoken; to voice what Zeb is to you, what you are to him, is to bury him in a burning star destroyer and turn the other cheek. There is no way in hell that you will give him up again. You learned your lesson, you learned it well, on an ice moon all those years ago. And again, when Hera brought the Ghost in for one last landing, and Ezra did not follow her.

It’s easier to think of it this way: a premature funeral has never serviced the Rebellion.

But if there’s one thing you’ve learned since turning traitor, it’s that even the best laid plans go awry. That one day -not so long ago- you will not leave the bed before he wakes. Simply rise, as one; feel him follow suit in companionable silence, and pad after you. Together you make your way to the clearing to spar; together you breathe, stretch, prepare. Wordlessly.

Garazeb wins the match, and he kisses you somewhere between 05:10 and 05:22, and everything begins to come undone. 

(And now?)

(Today?)

If you blink, that morning blends into this one; every fight the first and the newest, all at once. it takes a moment for you to adjust back to this time, this match. _Now._

Garazeb shifts under you, makes to push up and away. 

_Pay attention._ Here he is, again, gazing up at you, slightly confused by the pause. 

This morning _should_ follow the usual timeline. Shake off the sweat, refuse eye contact, trek back to base and begin the day. It’s burned into your brain, Zeb’s too; you know how it goes, after everything, and the growing heat at your back is just another reminder that time is up. Regret is overrated, even here, in the midst of an unwinnable war. 

You shift off of Zeb and lean back to collect your bo-staff. There will be a rematch tomorrow, a chance for you to win and return the gesture. Zeb has beaten you, unfairly, again. It would follow the current trajectory, for you to do the honorable thing and scramble off of him. And you are nothing if not honorable.

(Are you, though?)

Zeb is not paying attention anymore; has made as if to get up and brush the dirt from his clothes. He reaches for his weapon as you both lean back onto your heels; even here, in the quickly-drying earth, he is so much taller than you. Was he always this tall?

Your breath catches. Things have changed, you realize belatedly. Somewhere along the line, you stepped too far to the left; you stayed by his side too long, listened to him too closely. You can’t pinpoint it, exactly, but looking at Zeb now, ears flicking at invisible mosquitos, you can at least admit: he is so, so _bright._

Of course you don’t realize this until after you’ve grabbed Zeb’s collar, jerked him forward on his knees, kissed him yourself. Felt him go limp against you, for a moment. 

(Oh.)

And then he is laughing, and kissing you with an eagerness that belies the rumble in his throat, and the sun is hot on the back of your neck.

To the victor go the spoils.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [don’t say you love me (babe we’ve both had too much to drink)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25811275) by [elleTchj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elleTchj/pseuds/elleTchj)




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